Fulfilled
by marinoa
Summary: Arthur Kirkland has a prophecy: A king sits on the throne, but a sun-kissed man is destined to put an end to his reign. To fulfill this prophecy, Arthur sets off to find the right man, and so he encounters Francis Bonnefoy. AU


_Author's note:_ I have never written anything as easily as this one; meaning that it took me only two days to write the whole story without a doubt of how it should go. For me, that's unusual. o_O

**Fulfilled**

The bard finishes his last song and the habitants of the castle idly begin collecting themselves from long tables; nobles and guests little by little withdraw into their respective rooms or leave for their houses, while servants run back and forth in the great hall, busy with cleaning and fulfilling orders of their superior. Amidst all this Francis' long fingers gently curl around Arthur's bony wrist.

"Come with me," the king with the sun-kissed hair whispers into Arthur's ear and the mage shivers, because it's time, he knows, and he knows what it means, and his heart thumps heavily at that. But there's no escaping.

On their way out of the hall Arthur glimpses both Gil and Toni at the other end of the room. Gil grins and winks at Francis, and Toni gives a content, knowing smile to Arthur, and although the mage doesn't look, he knows that Francis sends them a smile of his own in response. Arthur turns his head away, because he doesn't want to see how joyously Gilbert takes Elizaveta in his arms and spins her around, doesn't want to see how Antonio withdraws with Belle. Arthur doesn't want to see, because Gil and Toni are the king's bodyguards and should never leave their place beside their lord and friend, not even when the king himself tells them to. And yet the mage understands that none of them knows, how could they? They have only recently fought for their cause and won, and they are mirthful, light-hearted, and willing to enjoy the sweet side of life. They believe that its all ahead, but Arthur knows better; all is at end. Well, at least for him – he cannot stay in the castle, he will leave that night, but Gil and Toni don't know it yet, and for that, Arthur envies them with his whole heart. He knows where Francis is taking him, knows why, and the weight of it breaks his heart in two, because he also knows that he is about to experience something great and extraordinary and beautiful... only to lose it forever.

"Hold on," Francis murmurs when Arthur stumbles in dark corridors, and his hand still holds Arthur's.

Once they are safely behind locked doors in the king's bedchamber, Francis lets go of his wrist and turns to face the pale mage. "Arthur," he breathes, and in that one word Arthur hears what he has longed to hear for nights and nights already. They stand in silence for several long seconds, exploring each other with their eyes only, and then Arthur steps forward and kisses Francis with all the love he feels for him. Francis responses to the kiss with as much as he gets, and after that everything happens quickly and the world turns into a haze.

Afterwords, when it is over, they both lie silently, catching their breaths, Francis still on top of Arthur, and Arthur knows that it's time.

"Arthur," Francis whispers right then, looking down into his forest-green eyes, exposing himself in that one look more than he even realises. "Don't go. Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me."

Arthur tightens his grip on the king's shoulders and pulls him down for a desperate kiss, and despite everything, his eyes fill with tears.

"I'm sorry, Francis."

xXx

The night is dark around him as Arthur runs through the forest, runs blindly, nowhere. There's no moon to light his way, no stars, only a thin veil of clouds ensuring that complete and utter darkness engulfs Arthur whole. He barely even sees the trees in his way, but, then again, he doesn't even put any effort in seeing. He doesn't care. He has nowhere to go, and he has no reason to go, either, and so he only runs of sheer unexplainable need of running. He doesn't care if something happens to him, if he is discovered, if he's killed, if he's mauled by wild beasts.

It was in that very same forest where Arthur first met Francis and his men, though the exact place is further, more than a week's journey from the castle. It is all in the mage's fresh memory, and in the dark, it's easy to slip into those memories and pretend that it's not all in the past now.

xXx

Arthur sees them long before they see him; he has lived the greatest part of his life in the forest, after all, so he knows how to keep quiet. Besides, well – a hundred men make noise whether they want that or not.

Their camp is on a clearing, they are preparing for the night, and Arthur watches them from the safety of trees, not yet willing to reveal himself. His heart races nervously – they could be what he's looking for, but how can he be certain without exposing himself? He feels soft waves in his aura though, so he might be right, but if he's wrong... He'd much rather avoid meeting the noose, thank you very much.

But then again, his chances are strong; the light tickling in his aura could mean that he's on the right track, and the signs in his prophecy hint in that direction, too: _a man of forests_, he heard in his vision, and now he beholds a hundred such men. Well, contemplate as he might, there's really only one way of finding out.

The men – warriors, as Arthur well sees – are quick to notice him when he steps out on the clearing, and though a single unarmed man is unlikely a danger, he is escorted to the commander of the men by a guard on his each side. The mage gives a small, amused smile at this, but the smile dies on the instant that he's presented to the commander. It takes him hardly a glance to know that he has found the man he has been looking for, the man fated to end an era and begin a new one. Arthur's aura very nearly explodes when it touches the commander's aura.

The commander, a surprisingly young man, sees Arthur's awestruck expression and laughs. Laughs straight from his heart, a full, sincere laughter, and the mage's mouth dries at the sound of it.

"What such an expression?" the commander asks him, blue eyes twinkling with mirth. He tilts his head to the side, and his long, golden hair hair follows the graceful movement. _The man kissed by sun_. Arthur's heart stops, he can't breathe. "You look as though you're looking at a living corpse," the man adds, as Arthur still doesn't say anything.

The mage slowly shakes his head at his words, trying to get his brain alive and functioning again; the man before him looks anything but a corpse. He looks as though he's a son of the sun himself.

"Well," the commander speaks again. "Would you mind perhaps telling us your name? Oh – my apologies! I haven't introduced myself, either. Francis Bonnefoy at your service." He smiles, extending his hand, and waits.

Arthur finally finds himself again and reaches for the offered hand. "Arthur Kirkland," he says.

"So you can talk after all," one of the two guards, the silver-haired one, grins.

"Yes, I..." Arthur's gaze slides around the ascetic tent, seeing no other people aside the four of them. "I need to talk to you," he says to Francis.

The man raises his brows gracefully. "Really now?" He looks amused but intrigued, and finally words are properly returning to Arthur. He clears his throat. "Alone."

This elicits a chuckle from the other guard, the tanned dark-haired one, but Francis merely states calmly, "I'm sure it's nothing that Gil and Toni couldn't hear."

And so Arthur speaks. He tells them of his vision, his prophecy, of the great misery and sorrow that will fall on their kingdom. Tells them of the man fated to prevent that wretchedness, the man from forests, kissed by sun, destined to save the kingdom by killing the king. Francis listens to him silently, but Arthur notices how his lips tighten to a line.

"And who are you, my friend, you, who gives this prophecy?" the commander asks when Arthur finishes.

"No one," Arthur answers. "I'm a mage," he then adds, hoping to gain credibility by telling the truth.

Francis looks thoughtful. "How can you be so sure that it's me whom you saw in your vision?"

"I just know," Arthur merely answers. "It's not a coincidence that I happened to go this way." Besides, looking at Bonnefoy, at his golden, sun-kissed hair, there could be no question about it. Besides, the constant magical tingling in Arthur's aura was the final sign; when his aura had come in contact with Francis', Arthur had known for sure.

"How do we know that you're telling the truth?" the guard addressed as Gil asked suspiciously. "For all we know, you might be an assassin sent by the self-proclaimed king and no mage at all." Wordlessly, Arthur turned to him and reached for his aura with his own. He gave a small push with it, adding just enough force to make his point, but already naturally pale Gilbert fell completely white and stepped backwards. "Okay, okay, I got it!"

Francis was quiet for a long time, then he spoke. "I believe you," he said to Arthur. "This cannot be a coincidence. As it happens," He gave a small smile. "I already am on the move to do just what you proclaimed in your prophecy."

Arthur blinked, confused, and Francis clarified. "I'm marching for the castle to kill Alfred the First, the man who calls himself king."

The mage is taken aback by this. "You are?" How? Arthur hadn't expected to find the chosen man ready in arms already... Well, on second thoughts, it's only a good thing.

"Were you listening when he introduced himself?" Gil asks, snorting. "He's a Bonnefoy."

_Oh_. Arthur understand all in a flash. Now, now it makes sense. The bloodline of Bonnefoys has ruled the kingdom generation after generation, for hundreds of years. They are Sun Kings, largely believed to have descended from the Father Sun himself in the ancient past. However, their reign was put to an end when Arthur was yet a baby; the King Luis, sixteenth of his name, was violently dethroned by the house of Jones', and a man called George Jones had taken the throne by force. The house of Jones' is greatly dislike by the people, as it is commonly believed that the last descendent of Luis Bonnefoy is still alive. Now George's son Alfred the First sits on the throne, and Francis Bonnefoy, indeed, is still alive.

Arthur regards Francis silently. _Kissed by sun_. Yes, the descendent of the last Sun King. The man of his prophecy.

And Francis looks kissed by sun in every aspect. He is well-built, shining, mirthful, and his golden hair surrounds his elegant face like a sun.

Arthur swallows. "I have found you."

xXx

Arthur very soon realises that, in fact, he has found more than what he bargained for. He stays in the camp and is immediately included in Francis' closest men, and so he finds himself in Bonnefoy's company almost all the time. Whenever he is in the uncrowned king's proximity, he feels the magical flutters in his aura, but strangely, there are other kind of flutters as well, and not in the aura, but somewhere in his chest. This odd fluttering seems to occur not only when Francis is around, but also when Arthur happens to think of him, or glimpse him from afar. It is so very strange, and, despite all his magical knowledge, the mage finds himself utterly at loss with this new, restless sensation.

Perhaps it's some kind of magic restricted for the Sun Kings only, as no one else in the camp (or in Arthur's life, really) rouses the same tingling.

Once, he asks Francis if he has got any magic running in his family's blood. The commander gives him a quizzical look at the question and shakes his head. "No, not a t all. We aren't mages. Why?"

Arthur frowns at his answer. "That's odd. I feel-" But then he sees how funnily Francis looks at him, and suddenly it seems a better idea not to elaborate any further. "Er, nothing, never mind." And then he leaves.

The symptoms, however, get worse in the course of the few following days. Whenever Francis lets his fingers brush Arthur's shoulder when he is animatedly explaining something, whenever he chooses to sit beside Arthur at the evening fire rather than beside someone else, whenever he catches Arthur's unintentional stare and smiles at him... Arthur, to his great dismay, finds his palms sweating, his breath hitching, his heart suddenly racing, and it's not normal.

And then the realisation dawns on him: something in the Sun King's aura is affecting his own in a negative way, and he is falling ill. But how come no one else in the camp manages to avoid the symptoms?

Arthur brings it up with Antonio one evening, when Gil is at his post guarding Bonnefoy's sleep, and Toni and himself are the only people at the fire.

"Do you feel anything odd about Francis?" he asks, and, when Toni looks bewildered, explains, telling about the fluttering and other symptoms that occur only in Francis' vicinity. Antonio listens, first in puzzlement, but then his smile widens into a wide, friendly grin from ear to ear, and he laughs aloud.

"Oh, Arthur," he says, and laughs again. "You are not ill my friend. You are in love!"

Arthur looks positively mortified on hearing such a declaration, and Toni wraps one of his arms around his shoulders. "Don't look so frightened," he says kindly. "It happens to all of us. And your heart's choice couldn't be any better!"

Love? Arthur has heard of love. He knows about love. But love doesn't happen to loners living in forests and only rarely visiting even villages, not to mention towns. Love doesn't and shouldn't happen to _him_, a mage with a cause, for heaven's sake! He can't do anything so irresponsible as falling in love!

"Even magic can't explain the secret of love," Antonio muses dreamily, then sympathetically taps Arthur's shoulders and leaves him alone at the fire.

xXx

"Tell us more about this prophecy of yours, mage," one of the men says to Arthur once at the evening fire. They are about at a week's distance from their final destination, the castle and Alfred the First, and excitement is palpable in the camp.

On this utterance, Francis, who is sitting beside Arthur again, turns toward the mage with a smile, and their knees bump together. The mage pointedly ignores Antonio's significant gaze and shifts ever so slightly away.

"The prophecy," he says and looks into the fire to avoid the blue pools of Francis eyes... and perhaps to create a mysterious air, just to amuse himself a bit; ordinary people are ridiculously impressed by absent gazes and muttered words. "A king sits on the throne," he begins in a low voice, still staring into the fire, but from the corners of his eyes he sees Francis' lips tugging into a smile; Bonnefoy knows what he is doing. Trying to suppress his own smile, the mage continues. "He is first of his name, but it's written in stars that an end must come to his reign."

"Alfred the First," someone mutters quietly, in fascination, and Arthur hears the fear in his voice. Well, that's a reaction he well knows – even the bravest of men fall silent before unknown mysteries of magic.

"Yes," he agrees. "The price of blood is blood – the blood he has taken he must pay with own."

At this, Arthur feels how Francis' aura twirls restlessly – no doubt he is thinking of his murdered father.

"The king is destined to die, his bloodline must whither and end in the dark of the night," the mage goes on. Then, tired of making up poor rhymes, he explains, "It is written in stars that great misery shall fall upon the kingdom if he lives, plagues and sorrow and wretchedness."

"Tell about the chosen one,"someone whispers.

"A man comes from forests," Arthur proclaims dramatically, and feels Francis' aura calming. "A man kissed by the sun. He must kill the ruling king, his hand must not shake when the new era in the kingdom begins. His hands must be stained to save the whole land from upcoming sorrow and pain."

Arthur lets his eyes slowly roam on the solemn faces around the fire. Everybody is quiet, and one by one, men turn to look at Francis. "It is a prophecy," one of the men says. "Father Sun is on our side, and the prophecy comes true." The man raises his wooden cup toward the moon. "Hail to the rightful king!"

One by one, men join his voice, and soon the shout echoes in the whole camp. Arthur's chest swells as he watches Francis, who indeed looks like a king, a king surrounded by his loyal men. Light and shadows play on his noble features as the fire dances in the wind. Arthur's throat thickens, he wants to say something to Francis, wants to touch his hand, his hair, his cheek, wants to hold him and never let go, and it is then that he finally admits to himself that he indeed has fallen for this man, hard and deep. But it's painful, it hurts to look at him, and so Arthur turns his head away and drinks for Bonnefoy with the rest of the men.

The solemn air of the prophecy is broken when the first cup is emptied, and men begin to sing, laugh, and even hop around in funny dances. Arthur watches it all, until he feels the already familiar tickling and looks to his left to find Francis' eyes intensely studying his face.

"What?" he asks, and thanks the red light of the fire for masking his reddening cheeks.

"You have freckles," Francis states and leans in just a bit. "Not many, but they are there."

Arthur shifts away as much as Francis shifts closer to him, telling his stupid heart to calm down; Francis will be the king when it's all over, and kings take only beautiful queens by their sides. "What of it?" he asks defiantly.

"Don't move away, I want to count them." Francis tries to pout, but spoils the attempt with a chuckle.

"No," Arthur utters, but feels his lips tugging into a smile and finds himself unable to stop it.

Bonnefoy leans away, still smiling. "One day," he threatens. "One day I'll count them."

"Good to know that you've got your mind on most important matters," Arthur responds with soft sarcasm. "I'm glad you have something to look forward to."

Francis chuckles again, and, in the sound of his voice, it is harder and harder to keep in mind the inevitable future, and easier and easier to wrap himself in the warm laughter of the man descended from the sun itself.

xXx

Eventually, the day arrives. Francis Bonnefoy stands at the gates of the castle that is his by birth-right, his men behind him, demanding with his full, powerful voice Alfred to surrender and open the gates. The false king, predictably, does not comply, but most of the town-folk still love their Sun Kings, and so Francis marches into the castle without having to use hardly any force.

They face troubles only inside the castle, where Jones has positioned the men loyal to him. The fight is bloody, but relatively short, and it ends at night when Bonnefoy corners Jones in the great hall. Alfred knows that he has lost, but he fights persistently, determined to take Bonnefoy's life with him. He fights until Francis finally thrusts his sword through his heart, and the prophecy is fulfilled.

xXx

The following few days are chaotic. The kingdom rejoices, but much work is to be done, many a thing must be arranged, and, of course, the coronation of Francis must be planned.

Amongst all that stands Arthur, Arthur the loner, the mage of the forests. He has never spent so many days in town, among so many people, and he is a complete outsider in what concerns the life in the castle. He has no idea of what to occupy himself with, as there is a servant for even the smallest of things, and he's no help in coronation preparations, either. His friends are busy, Gil and Toni organising guards and their watches, and Francis, Francis has barely time for even breathing, not to mention entertaining Arthur. He tries though, Arthur can see that he does, but there's little use in that. And so the mage spends his days wandering from one room to another, exploring the garden, and trying to swallow the bitterness that arises from the simple fact that he does not belong there.

He brings it up with Francis the first chance he gets. The coronation is on the following day, and finally Francis has an evening completely free.

"Francis," Arthur says as the young, yet uncrowned king steps into his chamber. He still feels the magical prickling in his aura in spite of the prophecy being fulfilled, and vaguely he wonders if it ever ceases.

"Arthur," Francis echoes. He senses that something is amiss, and the worried look he sends Arthur's way makes the mage's heart clench. Francis halts in front of him, and it looks to Arthur that he'd like to do something more, but fights against it.

It's suddenly difficult to meet that blue gaze, and Arthur looks down, desperately trying to remember what he has planned to say. The words, however, have abandoned him, so he merely utters, "I don't belong here."

Francis understands immediately what he means. "No," he says, hurriedly. "Don't say that." But Arthur shakes his head. "This is not my places," he insists. "You will be crowned the king tomorrow and need to start your kingly life, and find a queen, and I- I'm-" Helplessly he shrugs, unable to finish his sentence, and vaguely wonders at how even magic can't help him out in what should be simple task: explaining one's feelings.

Francis regards him quietly then, as if holding his breath. Realisation flashes in his eyes, and Arthur lowers his head in shame.

But the king doesn't berate him for his foolish feelings. Instead, he grabs both of his hands and squeezes so hard that the mage is forced to meet his eyes. "I don't need any queens," Francis says heatedly, desperately. "Arthur, look at me. It's not a queen I want by my side."

And Arthur feels it in Francis' aura, and understands, and his face flushes even more.

"Don't leave me, Arthur," Francis says, not letting the green eyes turn away.

"But you are a king," Arthur barely whispers. "I'm just-"

"The one that I love," Francis firmly cuts him off. "I love you, Arthur."

The words are so bizarre that Arthur is left short of words, and short of breath as well, because then Francis leans forward and gently, oh, so gently, covers his lips with his own.

"Don't leave me, Arthur," he whispers against his lips, and all Arthur's arguments, all of his determination, melt away.

"But-" he breathes in one last attempt, but Francis cuts him off with another close-mouthed kiss, robs him of words again. "At least not yet. Arthur, please. Stay a few more days. Think about it. Don't go. Think about it."

How could anyone say no to that? Arthur hasn't been planning to leave before the coronation anyway, but, perhaps, he could stay a couple of days longer, for Francis...

Francis senses his compliance and kisses him for the third time, this time more purposefully, more hungrily.

When they break the kiss, Francis withdraws a little and smirks. "Nine," he says contentedly.

"Huh?" Arthur doesn't yet comprehend, not after a kiss like _that_.

Francis pecks him on the tip of his nose. "There are nine of them. I counted."

Then Arthur catches up, and his heart swells in his chest. Yes, he could stay a couple of day more, there couldn't be any harm in that.

xXx

When the coronation day comes, Arthur stands in the first line beside Antonio and Gilbert in the great hall, while the rest of the people – nobles and peasants – are positioned behind them three. Before them all is Francis, he shines in all his glory and looks a Sun King more than he ever has.

The crown is pressed on his golden curls, the crowd cheers, and Arthur's aura prickles more than ever. _Don't leave me, _Francis said, and how could Arthur, a man like that?

But.

Arthur furrows his brows a little. Something is amiss. The people? Is it the crowd? Or the great hall that feels too small for Arthur, suffocates him until he can't breathe?

"...Descendant of the Sun and the house of Bonnefoys, King Francis, first of his name!"

Arthur snaps out of his thoughts at this. The crowd cheers again, louder this time, and everybody in the whole kingdom is all smiles. Arthur feels dizzy, he needs air and an open sky above him, he wants out, out..!

The ceremony is finally over. The crowd pushes out through the narrow doors to attend the celebration outside. Francis is obliged to go there too to show himself to the people, and Gil and Toni are at his side. Arthur, however, is exhausted of people and opts to stay, surprisingly, in the castle. There will be a feast in the evening and he will attend it, but now he needs to be alone and breathe some fresh air. He remembers a balcony that Francis once showed him and heads his way there for some solitude.

Only the bright autumn sky is there to accompany him, and the sun shines brightly as if to celebrate Francis' coronation, too. Arthur sighs contentedly and, despite the chilly wind, sits down on the stone floor and rests his head against the wall. He hears laughter and music and chattering coming from below, and lets the sounds lull him into a light slumber, where forest surrounds him and welcomes him home.

A light tap on his shoulder rouses him from the pleasant dream, and he blinks up to see Francis' worried face.

"Arthur, are you all right?" the king asks, crouching beside the mage.

"Mm, yes," Arthur murmurs softly, and – he blames this on the remnants of sleep still clinging to him – spontaneously leans forward, grabs the king's collar and pulls him in for a quick peck on the lips.

Francis laughs, deep and mirthful, and he's a joy to watch. The sun shines on him, making the crown on his head gleam almost equally with his hair.

"Francis," Arthur suddenly asks, "What did the priest mean when he said that you are first of your name?"

Francis tilts his head, an amused smile playing on his lips. "Oh, so you were listening after all. I could have sworn that you were sleeping right through the ceremony."

"Git." Arthur rolls his eyes.

"It means what it means," Francis then says. "Most of my ancestors were named Luis. My father was the sixteenth."

"Are you really the first Francis in the whole bloodline?"

"At least the first to be crowned the king." Francis shrugs. "My father wanted to give me a name not typical of our family. He said it's to avoid bad luck." A gentle smile curves on his lips. "And he was right: I met you."

Arthur returns the smile, but something is not quite right, and _why is his aura still prickling like that_?

Francis stands up and pulls Arthur with him. For a second, the sun illuminates the king's hair and the words just escape the mage's lips. "You are truly kissed by sun."

Francis chuckles. "Actually, if I'm descendent of the sun, it's actually you who's sun-kissed." He leans in for a peck on Arthur's cold nose. "Besides," he adds absently, "It's always said that those with freckles are sun-kissed, and the freckles are the sign of that."

Arthur freezes. "What?"

"I said," Francis repeats playfully, not noticing the sudden change in his lover, "that it's you who are kissed by sun."

Arthur's aura prickles, and his heart freezes in his chest. No. _No._

Francis misinterprets his mesmerized expression and chuckles. "That's exactly how you looked like when Gil and Toni first brought you in my tent." His smile is painfully soft. "Little did I know then."

When not a muscle on Arthur's face reacts to his words, Francis starts to worry again. "Arthur?" Then he thinks he understand. "You miss your forest, don't you?" he asks gently. "You always were a man of the forest."

Clearly he doesn't realise what words he lets fall from his lips, and Arthur wants to scream, shout, yell so that he won't hear the king, wants to cover his mouth with his fist so that he wouldn't speak again, wouldn't utter those dreadful, faithful words. But the damage is already done.

To easy Francis' concern Arthur nods numbly, but doesn't listen to his assurances and promises. He only hears the rush of his blood in his ears and the thumping of his heart, heavy and rapid and painful, and he understands.

He has been wrong. He has been completely and utterly wrong, right from the start.

When he found Francis, he was already heading for his throne – he hadn't been in need of prophecies to do what he believed was right. He killed the false king just as he had planned, and he would have done so whether or not Arthur had appeared in his camp. Francis was a king already then, although an uncrowned one, but he has been the rightful king ever since his father's death. What Arthur did was just tag along and pretend that he had a part in Francis' cause... while in reality, the prophecy was pointing another path for the mage.

_A king on the throne, first of his name, destined to die, bloodline must end in the dead of the night... The blood he has taken he must pay with his own._

_No_, Arthur says, firmly, but the words keep coming, the horrible realisation keeps downing on him like an executioner's axe.

_A man of the forests, kissed by the sun... his hands must be stained._

That is why Arthur's aura reacted to Francis' so strongly. That is why it still reacts.

_The price of blood is blood._

_No_, Arthur insists, but deep down inside he knows that it's a _yes_.

xXx

The bard finishes his last song, and Arthur feels fingers curling around his wrist. Francis' eyes bore into Arthur's in all their intensity, and Arthur knows what Francis wants – it's the same that he, too, has wanted for a long, long time already. But he also knows that the time is nearing, and that's why, when the king leads him to his bedchamber, Arthur's heart clenches painfully. He knows that whatever happens, he cannot stay in the castle any further.

Finally there is a thump of the door closing, and it means that they are alone now, hidden from the world, only the two of them, Francis and Arthur.

"Arthur," Francis breathes, and Arthur loses himself, gives in, and takes the first step toward Francis.

That night Arthur experiences magic he has never known before, the magic of two people who love each other and give their everything to make their lover feel it. It's the most beautiful of all feelings that Arthur has ever treasured, and so, when Francis kisses his all over, he gives back as much as he gets, kisses his lips, bites his neck, tangles his fingers in that golden hair.

When fingers enter him Arthur doesn't know what to do with himself in all that pleasure, but then Francis is inside him, and the world turns upside down. They find quickly the same rhythm and move together as one, and only deep moans and cries of pleasure cut through the night. Pleasure is everywhere, it's in the air around them, it's _in_ them, and it coils in the pit of Arthur' stomach almost painfully. It's so good and intimate and intense that he sobs, cradling Francis' face in his palms, never wanting to let go.

"Arthur," Francis breathes, and Arthur's eyes fill with tears.

"I love you," he half-sobs, half-gasps between the king's well-aimed thrusts. "Francis, I love you, I- _ah_."

And then the pleasure boils over the edge and Arthur is overwhelmed with a complete and utter fulfilment. Francis follows him, crying out his name, and the moment is perfect.

They lie like that, unmoving, Francis propped on his elbows on top of Arthur, still inside him, still connected both in body and soul. Both men are still gasping for breath, recovering from the intense pleasure.

"Arthur," Francis whispers again, looking down into the mage's eyes, honest and open. "Don't go. Don't leave me. Don't ever leave me."

Arthur stares up in his eyes, tightening his grip on Francis' shoulders, and despite his resolution not to cry, his eyes fill with tears. It's time.

He pulls the king down for a deep, desperate kiss, and reaches behind the pillows with one hand. When they part, Arthur looks into those blue eyes again.

"I'm sorry, Francis," he whispers.

Arthur intends to make it quick and painless, but from his position on the bed it's difficult to generate enough power or to aim precisely to the deadly spot. Besides, his hands are still shaking and weak from his orgasm, and so, when he strikes, the knife doesn't sink into flesh of Francis' back deep enough to kill.

The king lets out a surprised cry of pain, but his eyes never leave Arthur's. The mage sees that he understands what is happening, and something breaks inside him, crushes, tears apart, and he chokes on the pain as he brings the knife down for the second time, then the third. Francis lets out a pained groan, oddly similar to ones of pleasure from only moments ago. Arthur drops the knife then and tightly grabs Francis' shoulders once more, tears streaming from his eyes. He feels that all is said between them, there's nothing more to add, and Francis doesn't speak either, doesn't question, doesn't curse, doesn't even groan in pain any more. Only their ragged breath disturbs the silence. Francis never moves his eyes away from Arthur's, and Arthur holds his painful gaze, holds it until the sunlight escapes from the blue eyes forever, and nothing is left but darkness. It is then that Arthur lets Francis' still warm body fall on top of his, and he embraces it tightly, smearing himself in the blood of his beloved one, and weeps.

The prickling in his aura stops.

xXx

Arthur stops running only when he stumbles and falls on the ground, too exhausted to stand up any more. The darkness wraps itself around him, swallowing him whole, and Arthur closes his eyes.

Soon, it will be dawn. Soon someone finds out. Arthur imagines Gil and Toni when they are told, imagines their disbelief, their unwillingness to believe. All that will evaporate, though, when they see the body, their king, their friend, and it won't take them long to notice Arthur's absence and start questioning his whereabouts. Also, it won't take them long to see a whole new meaning in Arthur's prophecy.

Arthur feels deeps sorrow for them; they will feel betrayed, they will be engulfed in pain and anger, and worst of all, guilt.

They will want to find him. They will want to find him, and kill him in the worst way possible, and Arthur almost wishes that they do. Almost – for he doesn't care whether he lives or dies. Either way, Francis is lost for him forever.

Arthur forces himself up. Now the prophecy is fulfilled. The new time may begin. Francis is gone.

He stumbles upon a clearing and sees that in the east, the darkness is starting to withdraw. Dawn is coming.

In the rapidly increasing light Arthur looks at his hands, full of blood, Francis' blood.

_The price of blood is blood._

_Yes, _Arthur thinks, eyes in the east, and smiles. _Yes._

The rising sun paints the sky in red.

X


End file.
